


Journal of an Emotional Junkie

by echoes_of_another_life



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_another_life/pseuds/echoes_of_another_life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn’t remember when he’d stopped touching Sam but he could remember why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journal of an Emotional Junkie

Journal of an Emotional Junkie

Dean couldn’t remember when he’d stopped touching Sam but he could remember why. He couldn’t recall the exact moment or just at what stage in the sweaty rough and tumble of training, sparring and play fighting with his baby brother he’d stopped and realised Sam was no longer a baby. But he was still his brother and yet somehow he couldn’t quite get his dick to understand that.

Brothers don’t fuck each other. It was an unspoken rule, something neither one of them had needed to be told; it was something they instinctively knew. Brothers fought and teased and hid each other’s things. They shared their toys, their clothes, what few they had, until Sammy outgrew Dean by several inches, but until then... 

And they shared their beds, which was fine until Sammy also outgrew the nightmares, exchanged them for dreams, which caused him to reach out for something entirely different. To shift back against Dean and grind his hips against the erection Dean fought so hard to control. But it wasn’t sex, not entirely; he just wanted to be close; needed to be close to someone. 

Not that he was blaming Sammy. He was just a kid, a gangly mess of elbows and mood swings with a smile that belied he was anything but a normal everyday teenager on the brink of maturity. 

But they were anything but ordinary. They were John Winchester’s kids and normal wasn’t a word that could ever be used to describe what they had seen or ever come close to resembling what they had done or what they had lost. 

But brothers don’t fuck each other. 

And kids don’t clean their knife collection at the dinner table or watch over each other during the night after the bloodstains had been cleaned, and the wounds stitched and all that was left to do was pray that the scar would heal, at least physically. Kids weren’t taught how to fight. How to dodge a bullet, a claw, a fang... and they weren’t taught how to take out a salivating werewolf _without_ getting bitten. They weren’t given guns when they admitted to being afraid. 

And sometimes they were afraid. 

They were taught moral codes and how to conform to society. How to behave in company, at school, amongst friends and they were taught how to cope when raging hormones gave way to a desperate need to touch, taste and explore. 

But not the Winchesters. 

They weren’t taught what to say to someone after they'd used their body for release. Held them upright against a wall in some dirty, backstreet alley with their free hand because the other was busy tearing at clothes and grabbing at flesh without even bothering to get a name. 

Because what difference did a name make when it was the body that was important. The flesh that surrounded you, held you while you shuddered and bucked your hips, rutted your way toward release and poured everything you had into the first available person, who accorded you a second glance. 

What difference was a name if it wasn’t Sam? 

Dean couldn’t remember the exact moment when the lifelong habit of watching over Sam became a need to just _watch_ him. But he could remember why. 

Because there was nowhere else, no one else but them, together, day after day spent solely with each other. The inviolable company of the only person he trusted, loved and relied upon. Trust, love and shared fear, and a sense of belonging that soon began to erode the boundaries. A feeling of closeness, completeness that screamed out for intimacy. 

But intimacy wasn’t fucking your brother. 

And he’d fought it, he really had. Struggled as the rules became hazy, distant, and no longer applicable and the only thing he understood was Sam. Dean and Sam, Sam and Dean, together against the world and everything it threw at them. 

It would have been easy, so easy to step over the invisible boundary with no thought to what could be destroyed. No thought to what they were abandoning or leaving behind. Nor was he alone in that feeling, which could have made things easier but instead, made them worse. Because Dean knew, could tell by the way Sam looked at him, the glances that asked for things Dean wanted so much to give, to take. 

But brothers don’t fuck each other. 

The confident rough and tumble of fighting, rolling around on the floor together, a tangle of limbs and sweat-stained clothing that gave way to hesitant touches, exploration of hands and a mess of elbows that overnight seemed to fulfil that long ago promise of muscular limbs and toned muscle. 

The high-pitched shrieks of laughter that broke on a deep, low moan of arousal and repressed need that warred with an entirely new emotion that helped to maintain the fantasy that they were accepted by the people they fought to protect. An emotion that helped them cling to the pretence that they were accepted as one of their own. That they weren’t freaks. Weren’t children who were raised to maim and kill. That they weren’t brothers who were on the brink of trading the childhood sandbox for an adult bed. 

But disgust wasn’t an emotion either one of them were familiar with because their responses weren’t based on reasoning. They were John Winchester’s kids, raised to fight, to kill, to rely on instinct and instinct alone. To do what their gut told them was right, not what others believed to be right. Because after what they had seen, had done to survive, to get by... to live in a world that couldn’t possibly begin to understand what revulsion truly meant. Not until you’d dug up your first rotting corpse, swallowed past the bile and nausea that threatened as the stench assaulted your nostrils and clung to your clothes long after the bones had been salted and the body burned. 

Disgust wasn’t something he or Sam and been allowed to foster as a moral guide. Revulsion was something to be fought, to be overcome; it wasn’t something, which could be allowed to give rise to moral outrage. They were Winchesters and as Winchesters they did things which most would find incomprehensible. They did things which society could never tolerate, would never tolerate. 

They did what was necessary. They disturbed holy ground with every surface layer of dirt they turned up, loosened and removed. They pulled the remains of family members, other people’s loved ones from their resting place as they dragged their rotting flesh from their graves and burned them beyond recognition. 

They severed heads as fangs descended and the mask of humanity was lost to bloodlust and savagery. They hunted demons, demons and spirits, things, which even the worst of nightmares wouldn’t touch... 

And truth be told, it was disgusting. It should have caused revulsion and maybe it would have among others but not Dean. Not after he had learned to bury any feelings of disgust and horror along with all the other emotions he wasn’t supposed to feel, yet did. Because revulsion wasn’t a reason not to. It wasn’t a good enough argument, not when faced with the reality of what a person’s spirit could do, would do if it wasn’t sent back to the hell it had crawled out of. 

So in all honesty, disgust based morality? Sure it often made for good, solid arguments against the majority of the things Dean had grown up to consider normal. But the truth of it was, most people, if they knew, would consider what they did disgusting, but it still wasn’t reason enough to stop them. 

Nor was it enough to prevent Dean from wanting to fuck his brother. 

Because as wrong as that was, it wasn’t. They didn’t belong to society, weren’t a part of it, no matter how hard they fought for it. They belonged to each other, had belonged to each other and no one else, nothing else for as long as they could remember. 

And Sam belonged to Dean, had belonged to Dean from the instant their father had placed Sam in his arms and told him to leave, to run and never look back. Sam belonged to Dean because being around Sam meant Dean didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to erect walls, with Sam he didn’t have to pretend. Around Sam, Dean could be afraid, he could laugh; he could love and he could put away the weapons, the guns, and the many masks he hid behind. With Sam, Dean Winchester could be simply, Dean. 

And Dean belonged to Sam, had belonged to him from the instant he’d stopped fighting the thing they both wanted and buttoned his pants. Left the nameless nobody he’d picked up in the bar, skirt hitched around her waist, lipstick smeared across her face, a mumbled apology on his lips, guilt and remorse evident on his face as he eased her skirt down past her thighs, took several steps backward, turned, fled and returned home, to Sam. The night he walked back to the motel, every muscle tense, and each step echoing in his ears, his heart pounding in his chest, cheap perfume clinging to his clothes, causing his stomach to heave. At least he thought it was the perfume, only Sam hadn’t seemed to mind, didn’t care as he’d approached Dean, pushed him back against the door before Dean had taken more than two steps into the room and claimed his mouth. And Dean had done nothing as Sam had shoved his shirt aside, Sam’s breath hot against Dean’s skin, his teeth harsh as they scraped hard across Dean’s collarbone, hard enough to bruise, his voice ragged as he’d pleaded with Dean and begged him to stay. 

But Dean hadn’t planned on leaving. Too many nameless faces, too many bars and backstreet alleys, too many drinks but never enough to remove the taste of cheap sex from his mouth and only had him puking into the toilet bowl every morning. 

Too many one night stands, none of them satisfying enough for him to remember that brothers aren’t supposed to fuck each other. 

Dean wasn’t going anywhere. He rested his head back against the roughened wood of the door, closed his eyes and moaned as Sam had pulled at his jeans, tugged them down past Dean’s hips, tried to force them out of the way and Dean didn’t move, not once, didn’t help Sam but he didn’t stop him either. Dean didn’t move until he felt the vibration of Sam’s breath against his cock, heard Sam whisper his name as if his mouth was created solely for that purpose, or maybe another purpose Dean had thought as Sam had wrapped his lips around Dean’s cock, cupped Dean’s ass cheeks and pulled him forward to bring him deeper into the warmth of his mouth. 

Sammy... 

Dean wasn’t leaving. Instead he had thrust upward, ran his fingers through Sam’s hair and held him still as he’d fucked his mouth, increased the pace when Sam had tightened his mouth around his cock, dug his fingers into Dean’s hips, hard enough to bruise bone. But Dean didn’t care, not about the bruises and he didn’t give a fuck about what other people thought, didn’t care about anything but here and now and Sam. Sam’s mouth, Sam’s hands, Sam’s voice whispering his name as Dean withdrew his length, wrapped his own hand around his cock and fisted himself against the wetness of Sam’s lips. He didn’t care because fuck, if Sam’s mouth wasn’t the closest thing to home Dean had ever discovered, almost as close as the smile Sam had cast up at him, his Sam, on his knees, looking up at him... 

Every muscle in Dean’s body had gone rigid when he’d seen that look, Sam, eyes wide, pupils dark, shot with arousal, his mouth open, lips wet, jaw slack, his breathing harsh, ragged as he’d leaned forward, grazed his teeth along the length of Dean’s cock, wrapped his tongue around the ridge, over the tip before taking Dean back into his mouth. 

Dean was definitely not leaving. He’d thrust into Sam’s mouth, tugged on Sam’s hair, forced him down as Dean had grunted, bucked up, the sound of Sam’s name falling from his lips in what sounded like a mixture between a curse and a prayer as his orgasm had hit, one hand holding tight to Sam’s hair, the other fisting his cock as he’d watched Sam swallow his release. 

Sam had left the next morning, Dean had been too busy throwing his guts up in the toilet bowl to say goodbye. 

Because brothers don’t fuck each other. 

But the Winchesters did. 

Take your brother outside as fast as you can John Winchester had once urged him. Told Dean to run, and don’t look back. Now Dean, go... 

Dean could still remember the urgency in his father’s voice, the fear as he’d given Sammy to Dean, handed over the responsibility of Sam’s safety to his older brother. And Dean had tried to not look back, to keep moving forward, Sammy by his side. Each ditch in the road, he’d reminded Sam that it was going to be okay, each stop sign he’d glanced at Sam, beside him in the Impala and told him, 

_It’s gonna be okay, Sammy..._

Every time their father was late home from a hunt, he’d climb in bed beside his baby brother, smell his skin, dry his tears, run his fingers through his hair and whisper, 

_It’s gonna be okay, Sammy..._

It wasn’t Sam’s place to reassure Dean; Dean was supposed to be the elder of the two because Dean was the one responsible for Sam, he was supposed to be strong, brave, and invulnerable. He was supposed to watch over Sam. Not _watch_ him, down on his knees with Dean’s dick in his mouth in some dirty motel room that stank of sweat, booze and cheap disinfectant. 

And it had made Dean vomit all the more to hear Sam’s voice through the bathroom door, imagine his face, the concern, the frown that always marred Sam’s forehead, the one Dean hated, the one that always caused him to want to make Sammy smile again. 

_It’s gonna be okay, Dean…_

Dean couldn’t remember how many times he and Sam had traded insults over John Winchester. But he remembered the last time. 

Remembered the look of betrayal on Sam’s face when Dean had opened the bathroom door that night and brushed straight past Sam wouldn’t even look at him. Dean didn’t give fuck what other people thought, not then and certainly not now, other people weren’t important. 

Other people’s thoughts, opinions, they weren’t worth shit. 

Dean only cared about Sam; Sam was important, Sam was everything or could be everything if it wasn’t for the fact that Dean cared about what John Winchester thought because John Winchester was his father, his hero. John Winchester could do anything be anything because John Winchester was God. 

_Dean, I don’t understand, I thought you didn’t care about them..._

_I don’t but... It’s not natural, Sammy, it’s not..._

_What is natural, Dean? Something that other people see as good? How can this not be good, Dean, how can loving someone, wanting them as much as they want you, not be good?_

_Sammy, do you realise what you’re saying. I almost had sex with you, we’re brothers, dude... brothers don’t fuck each other._

_They don’t give each other blow jobs either Dean._

_Sam, don’t..._

_Don’t what, Dean? Don’t love you? Don’t want you? So you almost had sex with me, what was I doing when you almost had sex with me, taking a fuckin’ moonlight stroll? So you almost had sex with me, well guess what, Dean? I almost had sex with you too._

_Sammy..._

_Tell me you don’t want this, Dean? Don’t want me? Don’t love me?_

_Sam... but Dad..._

Dean couldn’t remember why he began touching Sam again but he could remember when. 

Three weeks, and two days after John Winchester had died. 

Three weeks, and two days after Dean had almost died, because Dean Winchester had died long before the demon had tried to take away everything he had with an eighteen wheeler truck. And long before St Louis Missouri as the suspect in a multiple homicide. Dean Winchester had died the night Sam had slammed the door on him and run away to college, forced away by Dean because of what they had shared that night. Because Dean wasn’t strong enough to admit that loving Sam was the only thing that truly made him weak, and yet was the source of his greatest strength. 

That by loving Sam, Dean Winchester had learned to love, to receive love and to give it back to those who needed it most. 

But Dean couldn’t tell Sam that, not that night and Sam had left without a backward glance and Dean had swallowed past the need to beg him to stay. 

But now Sam was back, and John Winchester was gone and his boys were truly alone in the world. 

Now it was just Dean; Dean and Sam together.   
The slip slide of skin against skin, naked and damp. It was heat and longing and bodies that warred against each other for dominance with neither coming away the victor. It was penetration, deep and desperate, which sometimes served to magnify the beauty of what they had, and other times only served to magnify the loss. 

Now it was just Dean and Sam, voices that cried out for release, but not from this, never from this... 

It was hands that grasped at flesh, mouths that seared skin, and hearts that raced towards completion as the mind shut down, closed out the world and everyone, everything but the two of them. 

It was an intoxicating mixture of timeless freedom and the timeless danger of forbidden sexuality. But it was also love, without walls, without barriers without pretence. 

And it was theirs. Theirs to share, to have and to give back to one another. 

It was their moment to be alive, to be more, as each stripped the other bare only to breathe new life back in to one another. 

It was the only thing that mattered, the only thing they had; it was here, now, together as each thrust brought them closer to home. 

Because home was wherever, it was the open road, it was another dark highway. It was wherever the hunt took them, as long as they were together.


End file.
